


The Conundrum of Mr. C

by ghostofchristmaspast



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1888, Angelo Akash Carmello, Astronomer - Freeform, Dr. R, Florence Silvia Edmondo, Gen, Historical, Horror, Italy, Letters, Magic, Mystery, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Raphael Julien Philippe, Reader-Interactive, Sebastian Johann Carmello, Telescope, The Conundrum of Mr. C, Unreliable Narrator, letter to the reader, mansion, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 11:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15266658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofchristmaspast/pseuds/ghostofchristmaspast
Summary: A lonely old man known only to you as Mr. C slowly reveals his past, riddled with death, scandal, and, occasionally, magic, through a series of letters as he descends into senility.





	1. Chapter 1

_Dear Reader,_

 

I've been thinking recently, you know, as people tend to think after a terrible tragedy has befallen them.

 

No, don't worry. Nothing of that sort has happened to me. I would say I am grateful for that fact, but the important fact is that I am not.

 

I find my thoughts slipping uncomfortably into an unfamiliar place. A dark place. I also find that I do not particularly like this place.

 

As I sit in my armchair by my fire, which- this is another thing I've found- has grown quite too hot, I think of how easy it would be for the dangling curtains to catch ablaze.

 

And yet I do nothing. I do not tie them out of reach. I almost want them to catch a spark.

 

I don't know why I am writing, but I suppose it calms me down. I suppose this is what they call a diary, and I do feel ever so bad of troubling these pristine white pages and tainting them with the ink of my thoughts. But perhaps I shall do it again, anyways.

 

My candle drips now onto the paper.

 

_Truly, completely, and forever yours,_

  
_Mr. C_


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Reader,_

 

I'm beginning to detect a rather foul smell about my home. I do not know where the origin is, despite spending a good portion of the day yesterday searching tirelessly for it. I earned myself quite the burn on my right hand after I had not realized just to what extent my candle had melted.

 

It is so terribly dark.

 

I had first caught wind of the smell as I quietly ate the breakfast which I had prepared myself. It was quite delicious, if you'll permit me to compliment myself. I am, by the by, not a bad chef.

 

Anyways, it bothered me to the point where I simply could not finish my meal in peace and thus began the search which I have just previously brought to your attention.

 

I wonder if

 

Ignore that last bit. I was going to write something, but I changed my mind and do not want to waste paper and start my letter over.

 

I still smell the terrible thing, and I think perhaps it's getting worse. Maybe it's a rodent issue. I'll get back to you on it.

 

_Always your humble servant,_

 

_Mr. C_


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Reader,_

 

It appears a great tragedy has befallen me after all. Remember when I said that it hadn't, in my first letter? It's sort of funny to think about now that it has happened. It's almost as if me in the past knew what would happen. Isn't that quite silly to think?

 

Anyway, I've found the source of the smell, and unfortunately that is where the tragedy lies. I found my cashmere bedsheets, underneath the floorboards in a state of rot! Isn't that terribly unusual?

 

I was quite confused as to how they got there. Not to mention I had never even noticed that they had gone missing!

 

My maid

 

Please disregard that. I had quite forgotten at the moment that I now live alone and no longer have a maid. How miserable it is, to

 

Ignore that, also, if you please. I fear I'd better stop. I had gone to the doctor's not long ago, and he had talked and talked about something that I hadn't really cared to remember but perhaps I should have listened.

 

I think I'll retire to bed right after I get these sheets washed.

 

_With my respectful compliments,_

 

_Mr. C_


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Reader,_

 

I was reading quite a peculiar book of poetry just the other day in my armchair. Remember, the chair I told you about in my first letter? What a time ago it was. In fact, I may begin adding the dates to my letters in order to keep track of them. I find myself often forgetting when I had written them.

 

More on this book of poetry. It was written by a quaint man. I don't remember his name. I believe it was a Dr. R-something. Anyway, he said something about poetry being a result of having a soul. Proof that we have a soul. I don't remember the exact verse. Perhaps I will write it down in my next letter if I can find the book again. I appear to have lost it already.

 

I believe the verse will stay with me for quite some time. Perhaps this doctor was right.

 

I might try my hand at a few stanzas.

 

Also, that dastardly smell seems to have returned. I also hear things, like knocking, but there are quite a few woodpeckers in the area. Perhaps I shall go out and feed them a few seeds.

 

_Quite always and having always been yours,_

 

_Mr. C_

_\- December 5, 1888_


	5. Chapter 5

I fear I am

 

Maybe I should

 

_Dear Reader,_

 

As I sat down to type up this letter on my writer, I saw that I had already begun to start a few. Isn't that peculiar? I hardly remember those instances at all, nevertheless what I had intended to write.

 

I had gone outside to feed those birds as I had suggested I would do in my last letter, but it seems none of them were out and about, even in the middle of the day. And in spring, no less! Isn't that strange?

 

As I went back around to the front of my home, I discovered a man standing at my doorstep. I do not go into town very often, so I'm afraid I did not know who he was at the time. I introduced myself as Mr. C- as I'm sure you are aware, that is my name- and the man politely introduced himself- he had such impeccable manners!

 

He lead me into my home. Looking back at it now, isn't it strange? Shouldn't I have lead him into my home?

 

Anyway, he spent quite a bit of time talking with me, and I can't quite remember the exact moment he left, but I'm sure it isn't relevant.

 

The smell still hasn't gone away, I'm afraid.

 

The knocking has begun again. It's a shame the birds aren't out when I am. I would so love to hold and feed them for a bit.

 

I feel very well. I believe I am quite

 

Am I quite sure the man left? I hear footsteps. Perhaps I shall go and investigate. Isn't that strange, investigating your own home?

 

_With all of my grandest love and humblest respect,_

 

_Mr. C_

_\- December 7, 1888_


	6. Chapter 6

_Dear Reader,_

 

I had investigated the noise I told you about in my last letter right after I had finished up my salutations, and I am glad to tell you now that there is nothing to fear. It wasn't that gentleman who had appeared on my doorstep. It was a woman, in my opinion, quite worse for wear, if you'll forgive me for making such a judgement.

 

I don't remember ever having lived with a woman besides my mother, so naturally I asked her her name and the reason for her being in my home. She told me her name was Florence, quite a pretty name, and told me she was looking for her husband. I was terribly confused, and so I inquired if perhaps the man who had just visited me earlier was this husband. Florence said she had never heard of such a man and that he was certainly not the one. I offered to take her to the city to find her husband, but she politely declined and showed herself to my front door and left.

 

The whole ordeal left me so utterly confused that all I did the rest of the day was sit by my fire and drink the hot cocoa I had prepared myself.

 

Sending,

 

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about the smell. I am sad to say that it is still here, and I believe that it is strongest by the entrance to my attic. Perhaps a poor bird or some other animal got in through the window some how and could not get themselves out again. I would go in, but I'm afraid I have quite a bad back and do not want to risk injuring myself in some way. Maybe when I'm feeling particularly well I'll venture up there. Until then, I'll have to live with it, I suppose.

 

_Sending my bountious love and support in your undoubtedly more bountious adventures,_

 

_Mr. C_

_\- December 8, 1888_


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear Reader,_

 

The events of yesterday have left me in a strange mood. I've been thinking of my encounters with Dr. R and Florence and how peculiar they were. Not the people, of course. Florence and the doctor were very fine people, and I do so hope to meet them again one day.

 

Anyway, after my long bouts of thinking by the fire, I've now thought it necessary to give you a description and brief history of my home. I will explain the reason at the end of my letter, and I do hope it will not leave you with too many questions.

 

As I have said before, my home is isolated and quite far from the town in which, technically, I live. It is quite large and sits upon a hill, surrounded by countryside and forest. It is rather beautiful, if you'll forgive me complimenting my own home. Once, it was lively and beautiful in its energy, full of people and animals and pretty plants and flowers. Now, it is empty except for me, beautiful in its immense oldness and solitude. (Remember that book of poetry I told you about? There was a poem about how things are beautiful in different ways, so I decided to implement that in my letter to you today. And I'm afraid I've forgotten to copy down a paragraph of poetry for you. Terribly sorry.)

 

One day I will relate to you how it came to be that I am the sole resident of this home, but I think I'd better leave that to some other day.

 

Now that you know more about where I live, I will now present to you my theory as to the why of the appearances of Dr. R and Florence.

 

I believe they know who I am and of my unfortunate lonesomeness. Quite simply, I believe they are inhabitants of the town and came to keep me company, and I do so love that they would do that for an old man like me! Florence may have acted strange, but perhaps she is shy and simply nervous. I would go into town to locate them, but I am afraid I cannot, which is where I hope you will not have too many questions.

 

The smell still has not gone away. It smells a bit like deviled eggs, which I do so love, but of course I would not risk a broken back over them.

 

I've been thinking that perhaps I should take a stroll about my estate to see what has not been touched in decades. I shall surely write to you about it.

 

_With thanks and warmest appreciation for your undoubtedly thoughtful consideration of my letters,_

 

_Mr. C_

_\- December 9, 1888_


	8. Chapter 8

_Dear Reader,_

 

This morning I had fished my old walking stick from the closet in my bedroom, which I had not touched for some time. I also found quite a few knick-knacks that brought me back to my younger years, like my father's surgical tools and my brother's unfortunately broken telescope. Often I find myself bitterly wishing I had the skills and means necessary to repair it, on those lonely days when I have nothing more to do than reflect on better days passed.

 

Anyway, after I had retrieved my lovely chestnut walking stick, I took the stroll around my estate I had thought about and relayed to you in my last letter. It was so different from my memory of it that I could hardly believe I'd been living in the same place. At times along the path I'd have to beat and shuffle my way through thick shrubs as long across and as deep as oceans. Briefly I wondered if I had mistaken the path and had accidentally wandered into the forest, but I was always proven wrong as long as I kept forward.

 

The path first took me to the back of my home, where the gardens were. Put simply, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The flowers were wild and untouched, riddled with thorns and so crowded into each other it was impossible to discern where one bush or stalk began and ended. The hills upon which they grew were cascades of color, as if the ground had dissolved into a stream of gems and jewels, nobler than any king and castle I know of.

 

It stirred within me something sweet and bitter. It is a shame I had shunned something so wonderful for so long. I spent quite a time there, standing and admiring what a sight it was.

 

I passed abandoned stables in a depressing state of rot, and I was glad no horse or animal had to bear living in that glorified shed. Then there was a series of identical buildings all in a row, covered in moss and vines. I do not know the purpose of those buildings, and, in fact, I was quite surprised to find them at all. I do not recall them from any point in my childhood. I'm afraid I was not able to get a closer look at them, for I was shut out by a rusty gate, tied further shut by tendrils of thorny vine. I'll have to look for the estate keys and a means to remove the vines if I am to explore further.

 

I passed a peaceful stream winking with fish tails and pebbles, feeding a bowed willow, whose wispy leaves skimmed the surface of the rolling water.

 

I thought of omitting the next part of my walk from this letter, but I feel I must remain truthful to you. I next arrived at the estate cemetery, but I did not go inside the gates. I merely stood and thought. I think that is an adventure for another day, perhaps when I tell you more about the house and my family.

 

I think I am finally ready to inspect my attic for the source of the strange smell. I will write to you about it tomorrow.

 

I'm drinking some wonderfully sweet hot cocoa right now. I do wish I could share it with you.

 

_Thinking of you even in the busiest moments of my thought,_

 

_Mr. C_

_\- December 10, 1888_


	9. Chapter 9

_Dear Reader,_

 

This morning, after I had finished my breakfast, I ventured up into the attic, as I had promised you. It was not easy, what with my old and weak joints, but my curiosity and hatred of that horrid smell won over the pain climbing a ladder might cause. Thankfully, I had put a few small candles and a box of matches in my pockets in anticipation of the moment I went up. I would have scarcely been able to see my own feet in that attic if I had not.

 

The smell was stronger when I had finally clambered inside, and I found myself wishing I had brought a handkerchief to block my nose with. After I had situated myself and assured that the hatch I had come up through was closed so I would not fall, I lit the candles.

 

The floor was cluttered with boxes, broken glass, and odds and ends like old children's toys, bottles, stacks of paper, and the like. A thick blanket of dust covered it all. I was almost afraid that if I tried to clear it away it would form an inescapable cloud, and I would suffocate. So I left it alone.

 

The wooden walls were unfinished and bare, and, at some points, discolored and mouldy. I believe this mold is the source of the rotten smell, and unfortunately I do not know how to get rid of it.

 

Across from where I stood, there was a window covered by a sheet, but, because of the limited room to move and the fact that I was not exactly certain if the floor was stable after so many years of neglect, I did not go to uncover it.

 

I inspected a few of the objects and boxes in order to see if I recognized any of them. There was my mother's dresser; I do not know why it is up there in the attic. I never saw anyone move it, but perhaps there is a lot I never saw, considering all that is there. The drawers were still full of her clothes, which I thought was strange. Next I found one of my brother's maps of the sky. This one appeared to be unfinished. I folded it and put it in my pocket to bring back down. It's hanging right in front of me now, and I do feel ever so proud of him.

 

Anyway, most of what was in the attic was just old knick knacks and memories that I'm not very glad I revisited. I'll tell you more about it later. I did find something very interesting, however, so this trip is not entirely a waste.

 

I found a painting of a woman, but the canvas was shriveled up, like wet paper left to dry. As a result, the woman in the painting was unrecognizable, though I do think I saw a bit of blonde hair. It reminded me of my brother. I've found myself thinking of him quite often nowadays.

 

I decided to leave the attic with what I'd found and let the rest of it remain undisturbed. After all, I'm getting rather old, and I'd prefer not to trouble my mind with any more of the past.

 

I'm inspecting the painting more closely now. The paint is crackling and scale-like. It has an odd scent, but it's not nearly as bad as the mould. The muse's face is terribly disfigured, although I think that is just a result of the disfigurment of the canvas, as I said. Now that I look closer at the canvas, it is hardly a traditional canvas. If you'll forgive the crudeness, it looks a bit like dried deer hide. I don't think I'll be hanging it.

 

The hour grows late, and I grow tired. Perhaps I will tell you about my family tomorrow.

 

_Wishing you luck and happiness in all of your endeavours,_

 

_Mr. C_

 

_\- December 11, 1888_


	10. Chapter 10

 

_Dear Reader,_

 

 

It took me quite some time to prepare myself to write this letter to you. You see, the subject of my family is a very touchy one, and in fact I had considered skipping over it entirely. However, I must be truthful to you. Perhaps it will benefit us both, and once I get it out I will no longer mull over the tragedy of it, like I have all these dreadful, wasted years.

Where shall I begin? Perhaps when my dear brother was born, when I was ten years old. That is when I truly began to live. I would not dare to say that my love for him rivaled our mother's, but I would be just as quick in sacrificing my life for him, if need be. Unfortunately, when it was needed, I could not.

 

 

His name was Angelo Akash Carmello, a name that still feels more natural than my own to say, even so long after his death. He was a unique being, a flame that burned brighter and fiercer than any of the candle or of any explosion of the cannon. He was passionate and genuine in everything he did, even the things he could never get quite right, like cooking and gardening. I'd always thought those things were below him.

Angelo was an established astronomer and had quite the intuition and talent for his job, as if he were connected with the stars and had been among them once. The only thing they could recover when he died was his telescope, which had been broken in the accident. I believe I have mentioned it to you before.

 

I still consider myself fortunate to have been loved by Angelo, to have his blood run through mine. The thought of it comforts me, when I am particularly melancholy some days.

 

 

In order to write this next section of my letter, I had to get up and take a little walk to clear my mind. I hope you will appreciate my efforts in providing you with this information.

 

 

Angelo died when he was only twenty-four. Whenever I think about it, I cannot help but let the anger fester in my chest. I consider it to be an enormously tragic waste of potential. I truly believe he could have changed the world, and, while I cannot help but be angry, I understand there is little this anger can do. So it festers.

 

 

I remember it well. He was traveling to France to meet a doctor. I believe his name was Raphael Philippe. Angelo was very secretive about this trip to France, for a reason I could not discern. He only said that he was going for repairs on his telescope and that this was the only place he could go. It was very strange to me, but of course I did not question him much. I trusted him with my life, and so I trusted him with his.

 

 

I should not have.

 

 

It is unclear what exactly happened before the accident, but the authorities who took up the case could at least infer something. Angelo had been traveling alone along a dangerously rocky portion of the Alps, most likely at night, although the precise time is not known.

I would like to note that I do not know why he was in the mountains, as it would not have been part of his route. At least, the route he told me of. Perhaps he found it necessary to change his plans. I will never know.

 

 

Somehow, his carriage ended up at the bottom of a ravine, a heap of wood and metal. His body was not found, which I deeply regret to this day. Perhaps my sorrow would be lessened if this were not the case. The only thing of significance that was found was his telescope, which was returned to me.

 

 

Isn't it ironic that his telescope was crushed while he was going to repair it? It is small, but I think about it often.

 

 

I wonder where his body is.

 

 

I had never been so terribly and so thoroughly heartbroken than when I received the news of his death. It is a feeling that will never meet a parallel. How I loved him so.

 

 

As much as I would like to say I would like to continue, I do not. I have written more than enough for today. I will continue tomorrow.

 

 

_Thankful that my thoughts of you chase away my sorrow,_

 

 

_Mr. C_

 

_\- December 12, 1888_


	11. Chapter 11

 

_Dear Reader,_

 

Yesterday I had begun and ended my letter with the story of the most important person in my life. Now I will finish with the rest of my family and a person very dear to me.

My father's name was Rodrigo Carmello. He was a surgeon, then the mayor of our town. He was the reason we were rich, and he acted accordingly. You may find my words when explaining him to be cold and unexciting, and I apologize wholeheartedly for that. It is all I feel when I think of him. Some may think that that is a cruel thing to say about your father, but it is the truth.

 

He was my father in the regards that he made me. Other than that, he was more like a colleague. I did not think badly of him, but I did not think particularly warmly of him, either. Perhaps it was the largeness of the house or the many political guests it often held, but I did not see nor interact with my father very often. When our maids made supper, because of these very guests (some of which I daren't think weren't politicians, but something far more foul), Angelo and I were sent off to a different part of the house to eat with our mother.

 

My father caused a great amount of scandal in his life, which lead to his ostracism and thus the isolation of my family, and, eventually, me. I will tell you of these scandals at a greater length sometime else. I could write a whole letter over just one, although I must admit some of the details elude me. My mother tried her best to keep me from most of it, but of course sometimes you hear things and you never forget them.

 

I believe my father's death was suicide, although I have only the venom of rumors to go off of. I did not get to see his body, nor attend the funeral. It was private, and not even his eldest son had been invited. It did not hurt me as much as my mother's death.

 

My mother's name was Rosalina, a fitting name, in my opinion. She was a gentle, comforting creature, tender and sensitive. She was very quiet most of her time, and only really came alive when she was in Angelo and I's company. She was the light of this house in our eyes, at least. She taught us a little about tending to the garden and caring for the animals. My mother would not teach us how to sew or make clothes and other things because she did not think it would be permitted by our father, but I took it up later, anyway, and still quite enjoy it.

 

She died a few years after Angelo was born. I believe it was pneumonia. Our father did not attend the funeral, and I always took umbrage at that fact.

 

This next entry brings me immense joy, so I think I will provide a little backstory first. I think you will recognize it.

 

I was nineteen years old, and I was sailing to another country in order to study abroad at a literature school. I was alone on the ship, as I was traveling by myself and had yet to meet anyone.

 

By the way, this was after both my mother and my father's deaths. Angelo was being cared for back at home in Sicily during a rather dangerous time.

 

I was just about to get to sleep on a rather nice bed offered to first class passengers when I heard a commotion outside the door to my small room. I listened for a while, and, when it was silent, exited. I do not know what happened previously, but when I stepped outside there was a person sitting on the carpeted ground, picking up shards of glass with their gloves hands.

 

That was how I met you.

 

When I asked you what just went on, you explained, from your position on the floor, that you had been arguing with another passenger about their drunken behavior, and the shattered glass chalice was collateral damage when they threw it at you. I aided you in picking up the pieces, and we remained something of friends on the ship and at our destination.

 

Unfortunately, when I returned, I could no longer keep contact with you except through letters, which I wrote occasionally.

 

Now I write to you again. I do hope you still consider me a friend, although I suppose since so much time has passed you may not even remember me.

 

I am glad I could end this letter reasonably joyfully.

 

_Certain that my fondness for you will not fade even in the dimmest of light,_

 

_Mr. C_

 

_\- December 13, 1888_


	12. Chapter 12

_Dear Reader,_

 

This morning I began my day with a long search for the estate keys, which would, if all were present, grant me the ability to access most rooms or locked gates. I say, "if all were present," because not all were present. In fact, there were a mere two keys on the ring, out of my memory of tens. It makes me wonder why the others are not here.

 

The keys, when they were made, were engraved with the initials of the room or gate they were intended to lock and unlock so we would not have to rife through all of them to find the right one. The first key, a small, silver, simple one, bore the letters, "L.B.," which I took to mean the library. I have not gone there in years, so perhaps we'll have to stop by for a while. The second key, which was significantly larger, coppery and rusted, was engraved, "C.C.". I am not quite sure what this stands for, which surprises me. Although the keys were mostly crafted for the maids and butlers and I did not really have a need for them, I was sure that I had a good grasp of the layout of this estate. And yet I cannot think of an area which would require those initials. Perhaps if I think about it at length something will come to me, but for now I will tell you my next actions.

 

After I found these two keys, which were in the kitchen, by the way, I searched around a bit longer for some others, but alas those two were all I could find.

 

But I have something far more important to relay to you in this letter. I received a rather cryptic message in my mail this morning. There was no address nor a signature, and this was the inscription:

 

_"_ _Hogeita bost,_

 

_Rue Roussy,_

 

_Hogeita hamar bat,_

 

_Nouméa,_

 

_Frantzian"_

 

I simply cannot make heads or tails out of this letter. My initial thought, when I first opened and read the letter, was that it had been mistakenly sent to me, but I will tell you why I now believe that it was not a mistake after a strange series of events that occurred just before the letter came to me.

 

The first was tapping. It was like the tapping I had first mistaken for birds, and I would not have thought anything of it if it had not been such a peculiar situation. The tapping I heard was within the walls. I'm absolutely sure of it, strange as it might sound. It frightened me so much that I left the room immediately and went to begin this letter. Isn't it a terribly scary thing to hear such noises when you are alone?

 

The second thing that occurred, while I was writing this letter to you, was a knock on my door. But it was not a knock. It was pounding and scratching to a rhythm. Three in a row, a short pause, a long, horrid scrape, repeated. I thought I might have heard a voice, but I did not answer. I closed the door to my living room. I was quite terrified at that point, but now I will tell you what compelled me to leave my shelter and go outside.

 

After I had finished the second paragraph of this letter, the noises at the front door stopped. I stopped writing and exited my living room. The front door was wide open, and the room was quite cold. Not a single mark blemished the mahogany door. At my feet lay a broken piece of metal. I looked closer. It was a compass. The glass was cracked, and the needle unmoving. It was pointed West. I have it sitting now on my desk as I write this, still pointing westward.

 

My fingers stung when I first touched the compass, as if it were electrified. I don't think I'd ever been as scared in my life as much as I was in that moment, yet I was very terribly curious.

 

I stood outside my front door, looking around quite carefully when I noticed my mailbox had been opened. I went forward to investigate and inside I found the letter I told you about previously.

 

I will be honest. I do not know what to do following these strange events and even stranger note. Who could have been at the door, to make such awful noises? What was it that was tapping, inside of my walls, no less? What is the purpose of the compass and the letter? I believe I will not be able to sleep tonight if I dwell on these questions too much, which will likely be the case. Perhaps you may have input on the situation. I am desperate.

 

_Grateful that you allow me to put my mind at ease through these letters,_

 

_Mr. C_

 

_\- December 14, 1888_


	13. Chapter 13

_Dear Reader,_

 

I have not slept since I last wrote to you yesterday evening, and, now, as I write this letter as the sky turns purple with the gradual descent of the sun, I am so terribly tired. But I fear tonight will be another restless one. I have something most distressing to tell you.

 

Do you remember the keys I told you about? This morning I had decided to go into the library for the first time in perhaps years. The room was dark, and the shelves that stood from ceiling to floor I believe would have keeled over many years ago from the sheer weight of hundreds and hundreds of books if not for the lack of space to land. It was truly a thing to behold and a holy place for the bookish person or the writer. 

Strangely, I found no memories of that room within myself, although I'm certain I must have spent a considerable amount of time in there. I lit a candle and wandered amongst the bookcases, in awe of their grandness and dusty beauty. Frail ladders rested against the shelves, but I did not dare to climb one. I am far too heavy and the ladders far too old. At length I came across a round sitting area, decorated with mahogany tables covered in papers and books and plush armchairs blanketed with a perfectly untouched layer of dust and dirt. One table in particular caught my attention. It was not staggering under the weight of tens of books, and, in fact, had only one. I recognized it only when I stepped forward to read the cover which said, "Diary". I knew at once it was my mother's, covered in hand-drawn flowers and plants. The leather was torn and shrunken with age, and the pages yellow and crumpled.

 

Unfortunately, if you remember, this letter is to relay nothing good.

 

When I picked up my mother's diary, a letter slipped out of the front cover. The letter was not in an envelope, and instead was folded in upon itself. I opened it, and it began thusly,

 

"To whomever it may concern,

 

I know not your name nor your whereabouts, and, with respect, do not care. I forgive you, although I suspect that you had nearly no choice in playing along with my husband. I will continue to raise your son with my own as long as that is what you wish. I bare no ill will toward him or toward you. I can't imagine"

 

And that is where the letter stopped. A pool of ink had dried around the last word, as if my mother had laid her pen down for quite some time. I don't believe she ever picked it up again.

 

My hands could not help but shake after I had the displeasure of reading that paragraph. How unfortunate it is that words can change a life so suddenly, so atrociously. I did not want to believe it, but I took the letter and the diary with me as I left that library. You know the boy of whom she spoke. I do not wish to write his name, not in this context. Of course, it hardly matters the circumstances of his birth. I love him all the same. Yet I cannot help but feel a sense of loss.

I skimmed my mother's diary- I do hope she will forgive me for that trespassing. And, indeed, the pages are soaked in my father's dark deeds, hung up to dry, and hideously stained by them. Her pain is the proof. How she wept night after night, haunted by them. My father was not oblivous to her knowledge of them, and did not care. The void in my heart where my father's memory lay is now filled with hate. I will tell you the things he did, maybe tomorrow. It will be a wicked day for the both of us. I will now try to salvage this letter into something proper. 

I am terribly sorry for the maelstrom I just inflicted upon you. My original intent when I went into the library was to scrounge up some books that could possibly tell me what happened yesterday. I don't believe it was human, as ominous as it is to say. I will do that soon, as it could very well return. Perhaps tonight.

 

It is only midday as I finish this letter, and I'm ever so sorry for giving you such an incomplete summary. I'm sure you understand my situation, however. You were always such a wonderfully reasonable person.

 

_Hoping to see at least another sun with you in my arms before the end of my life,_

 

_Mr. C_

 

_\- December 15, 1888_


End file.
